The Mysterious Affair at Styles
face was impassive as ever, and the strange unreality of the man struck
me afresh.
Mrs. Inglethorp came down last. She still looked agitated, and during
the meal there was a somewhat constrained silence. Inglethorp was
unusually quiet. As a rule, he surrounded his wife with little
attentions, placing a cushion at her back, and altogether playing the
part of the devoted husband. Immediately after supper, Mrs. Inglethorp
retired to her boudoir again.
“Send my coffee in here, Mary,” she called. “I’ve just five minutes to
catch the post.”
Cynthia and I went and sat by the open window in the drawing-room. Mary
Cavendish brought our coffee to us. She seemed excited.
“Do you young people want lights, or do you enjoy the twilight?” she
asked. “Will you take Mrs. Inglethorp her coffee, Cynthia? I will pour
it out.”
“Do not trouble, Mary,” said Inglethorp. “I will take it to Emily.” He
poured it out, and went out of the room carrying it carefully.
Lawrence followed him, and Mrs. Cavendish sat down by us.
We three sat for some time in silence. It was a glorious night, hot and
still. Mrs. Cavendish fanned herself gently with a palm leaf.
“It’s almost too hot,” she murmured. “We shall have a thunderstorm.”
Alas, that these harmonious moments can never endure! My paradise was
rudely shattered by the sound of a well known, and heartily disliked,
voice in the hall.
“Dr. Bauerstein!” exclaimed Cynthia. “What a funny time to come.”
I glanced jealously at Mary Cavendish, but she seemed quite
undisturbed, the delicate pallor of her cheeks did not vary.
In a few moments, Alfred Inglethorp had ushered the doctor in, the
latter laughing, and protesting that he was in no fit state for a
drawing-room. In truth, he presented a sorry spectacle, being literally
plastered with mud.
“What have you been doing, doctor?” cried Mrs. Cavendish.
“I must make my apologies,” said the doctor. “I did not really mean to
come in, but Mr. Inglethorp insisted.”
“Well, Bauerstein, you are in a plight,” said John, strolling in from
the hall. “Have some coffee, and tell us what you have been up to.”
“Thank you, I will.” He laughed rather ruefully, as he described how he
had discovered a very rare species of fern in an inaccessible place,
and in his efforts to obtain it had lost his footing, and slipped
ignominiously into a neighbouring pond.
“The sun soon dried me off,” he added, “but I’m afraid my appearance is
very disreputable.”
At this juncture, Mrs. Inglethorp called to Cynthia from the hall, and
the girl ran out.
“Just carry up my despatch-case, will you, dear? I’m going to bed.”
The door into the hall was a wide one. I had risen when Cynthia did,
John was close by me. There were therefore three witnesses who could
swear that Mrs. Inglethorp was carrying her coffee, as yet untasted, in
her hand.
My evening was utterly and entirely spoilt by the presence of Dr.
Bauerstein. It seemed to me the man would never go. He rose at last,
however, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
“I’ll walk down to the village with you,” said Mr. Inglethorp. “I must
see our agent over those estate accounts.” He turned to John. “No one
need sit up. I will take the latch-key.”
CHAPTER III.
THE NIGHT OF THE TRAGEDY
To make this part of my story clear, I append the following plan of the
first floor of Styles. The servants’ rooms are reached through the door
B. They have no communication with the right wing, where the
Inglethorps’ rooms were situated.
It seemed to be the middle of the night when I was awakened by Lawrence
Cavendish. He had a candle in his hand, and the agitation of his face
told me at once that something was seriously wrong.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, sitting up in bed, and trying to collect
my scattered thoughts.
“We are afraid my mother is very ill. She seems to be having some kind
of fit. Unfortunately she has locked herself in.”
“I’ll come at once.”
I sprang out of bed; and, pulling on a dressing-gown, followed Lawrence
along the passage and the gallery to the right wing of the house.
John Cavendish joined us, and one or two of the servants were standing
round in a state of awe-stricken excitement. Lawrence turned to his
brother.
“What do you think we had better do?”
Never, I thought, had his indecision of character been more apparent.
John rattled the handle of Mrs. Inglethorp’s door violently, but with
no effect. It was obviously locked or bolted on the inside. The whole
household was aroused by now. The most alarming sounds were audible
from the interior of the room. Clearly something must be done.
“Try going through Mr. Inglethorp’s room, sir,” cried Dorcas. “Oh, the
poor mistress!”
Suddenly I realized that Alfred Inglethorp was not with us—that he
alone had given no sign of his presence. John opened the door of his
room. It was pitch dark, but Lawrence was following with the candle,
and by its feeble light we saw that the bed had not been slept in, and
that there was no sign of the room having been occupied.
We went straight to the connecting door. That, too, was locked or
bolted on the inside. What was to be done?
“Oh, dear, sir,” cried Dorcas, wringing her hands, “what ever shall we
do?”
“We must try and break the door in, I suppose. It’ll be a tough job,
though. Here, let one of the maids go down and wake Baily and tell him
to go for Dr. Wilkins at once. Now then, we’ll have a try at the door.
Half a moment, though, isn’t there a door into Miss Cynthia’s rooms?”
“Yes, sir, but that’s always bolted. It’s never been undone.”
“Well, we might just see.”
He ran rapidly down the corridor to Cynthia’s room. Mary Cavendish was
there, shaking the girl—who must have been an unusually sound
sleeper—and trying to wake her.
In a moment or two he was back.
“No good. That’s bolted too. We must break in the door. I think this
one is a shade less solid than the one in the passage.”
We strained and heaved together. The framework of the door was solid,
and for a long time it resisted our efforts, but at last we felt it
give beneath our weight, and finally, with a resounding crash, it was
burst open.
We stumbled in together, Lawrence still holding his candle. Mrs.
Inglethorp was lying on the bed, her whole form agitated by violent
convulsions, in one of which she must have overturned the table beside
her. As we entered, however, her limbs relaxed, and she fell back upon
the pillows.
John strode across the room, and lit the gas. Turning to Annie, one of
the housemaids, he sent her downstairs to the dining-room for brandy.
Then he went across to his mother whilst I unbolted the door that gave
on the corridor.
I turned to Lawrence, to suggest that I had better leave them now that
there was no further need of my services, but the words were frozen on
my lips. Never have I seen such a ghastly look on any man’s face. He
was white as chalk, the candle he held in his shaking hand was
sputtering onto the carpet, and his eyes, petrified with terror, or
some such kindred emotion, stared fixedly over my head at a point on
the further wall. It was as though he had seen something that turned
him to stone. I instinctively followed the direction of his eyes, but I
could see nothing unusual. The still feebly flickering ashes in the
grate, and the row of prim ornaments on the mantelpiece, were surely
harmless enough.
The violence of Mrs. Inglethorp’s attack seemed to be passing. She was
able to speak in short gasps.
“Better now—very sudden—stupid of me—to lock myself in.”
A shadow fell on the bed and, looking up, I saw Mary Cavendish standing
near the door with her arm around Cynthia. She seemed to be supporting
the girl, who looked utterly dazed and unlike herself. Her face was
heavily flushed, and she yawned repeatedly.
“Poor Cynthia is quite frightened,” said Mrs. Cavendish in a low clear
voice. She herself, I noticed, was dressed in her white land smock.
Then it must be later than I thought. I saw that a faint streak of
daylight was showing through the curtains of the windows, and that the
clock on the mantelpiece pointed to close upon five o’clock.
A strangled cry from the bed startled me. A fresh access of pain seized
the unfortunate old lady. The convulsions were of a violence terrible
to behold. Everything was confusion. We thronged round her, powerless
to help or alleviate. A final convulsion lifted her from the bed, until
she appeared to rest upon her head and her heels, with her body arched
in an extraordinary manner. In vain Mary and John tried to administer
more brandy. The moments flew. Again the body arched itself in that
peculiar fashion.
At that moment, Dr. Bauerstein pushed his way authoritatively into the
room. For one instant he stopped dead, staring at the figure on the
bed, and, at the same instant, Mrs. Inglethorp cried out in a strangled
voice, her eyes fixed on the doctor:
“Alfred—Alfred——” Then she fell back motionless on the pillows.
With a stride, the doctor reached the bed, and seizing her arms worked
them energetically, applying what I knew to be artificial respiration.
He issued a few short sharp orders to the servants. An imperious wave
of his hand drove us all to the door. We watched him, fascinated,
though I think we all knew in our hearts that it was too late, and that
nothing could be done now. I could see by the expression on his face
that he himself had little hope.
Finally he abandoned his task, shaking his head gravely. At that
moment, we heard footsteps outside, and Dr. Wilkins, Mrs. Inglethorp’s
own doctor, a portly, fussy little man, came bustling in.
In a few words Dr. Bauerstein explained how he had happened to be
passing the lodge gates as the car came out, and had run up to the
house as fast as he could, whilst the car went on to fetch Dr. Wilkins.
With a faint gesture of the hand, he indicated the figure on the bed.
“Ve—ry sad. Ve—ry sad,” murmured Dr. Wilkins. “Poor dear lady. Always
did far too much—far too much—against my advice. I warned her. Her
heart was far from strong. ‘Take it easy,’ I said to her,
‘Take—it—easy’. But no—her zeal for good works was too great. Nature
rebelled. Na—ture—re—belled.”
Dr. Bauerstein, I noticed, was watching the local doctor narrowly. He
still kept his eyes fixed on him as he spoke.
“The convulsions were of a peculiar violence, Dr. Wilkins. I am sorry
you were not here in time to witness them. They were quite—tetanic in
character.”
“Ah!” said Dr. Wilkins wisely.
“I should like to speak to you in private,” said Dr. Bauerstein. He
turned to John. “You do not object?”
“Certainly not.”
We all trooped out into the corridor, leaving the two doctors alone,
and I heard the key turned in the lock behind us.
We went slowly down the stairs. I was violently excited. I have a
certain talent for deduction, and Dr. Bauerstein’s manner had started a
flock of wild surmises in my mind. Mary Cavendish laid her hand upon my
arm.
“What is it? Why did Dr. Bauerstein seem so—peculiar?”
I looked at her.
“Do you know what I think?”
“What?”
“Listen!” I looked round, the others were out of earshot. I lowered my
voice to a whisper. “I believe she has been poisoned! I’m certain Dr.
Bauerstein suspects it.”
“_What?_” She shrank against the wall, the pupils of her eyes dilating
wildly. Then, with a sudden cry that startled me, she cried out: “No,
no—not that—not that!” And breaking from me, fled up the stairs. I
followed her, afraid that she was going to faint. I found her leaning
against the bannisters, deadly pale. She waved me away impatiently.
“No, no—leave me. I’d rather be alone. Let me just be quiet for a
minute or two. Go down to the others.”
I obeyed her reluctantly. John and Lawrence were in the dining-room. I